


Keeping Christmas

by chilly_flame



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-05
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-01 02:42:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chilly_flame/pseuds/chilly_flame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story inspired by "A Christmas Carol," by Charles Dickens. <i>“I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me I may sponge away the writing on this stone!"</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt: Miranda/Andy - A Christmas Carol take off, from sweet writetherest, for the Christmas Cracker ficathon, 2012. Many thanks to politic_x for the firm nudge in the direction of this prompt, although it took about ten days longer to finish than I’d hoped. Also, huge thanks to Xander, who guided me through a journey that was far more challenging than I anticipated.

 

“I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me I may sponge away the writing on this stone!"

 ** _Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol_**  
  
\----  
  
Part I.

The office is silent. Outside, snow falls even as the sun tries to break through the clouds.

“Miranda, are you sure you want to--”

Miranda looks up at Nigel, and his face freezes before her eyes. Any softness in his expression vanishes, starting with the half smile he’d worn only seconds before. The chill extends north centimeter by centimeter, until he’s gazing at her with blank features.

“Okay, then.” Nigel turns and strides out of the room.

Miranda opens her mouth briefly before she shakes her head. What Nigel thinks, or what he says outside this office, doesn’t matter. The magazine needs work, and it can’t wait, no matter what bloody day it is. She spots the open calendar at the left corner of the desk, noting the date circled: December 24th.

Today.

No one gets today off, and no one gets out early. Miranda has been very clear with her staff: it’s not only a full workday, but it’s also likely to be a late night. Tomorrow she has to accept as a lost cause, though she had tried to convince the HR department otherwise. She’s been soft enough on her staff, allowing them to come in at 9:00 instead of 8:00 today. Besides, a fair number of her staff are the absolute opposite of Christian, therefore it shouldn’t matter that Miranda wants them to work on Christmas Day. But her efforts were in vain, and her staff will be home tomorrow, lazing about, overeating and doing god knows what, while Miranda plans to work a full day at home.

“Andrea,” Miranda says, and she listens as her first assistant scurries into the office, instantly at attention. Miranda doesn’t look up, instead flipping through the storyboards of this disaster of a layout. “I expect you to be in the office until I’m ready to leave. Is that clear?”

“Of course, Miranda,” she breathes. Her tone is one of concern, which causes Miranda to finally lift her head. “Is everything all right?”

That sets off warning bells. “Of course. What could possibly be wrong?”

Andrea glances over her shoulder, as if checking to see if anyone is within earshot. “I just know that,” she lowers her voice, “the girls were supposed to be home, waiting for you. For Christmas. They’ve been looking forward--”

“Everything is fine,” Miranda says coldly, although everything isn’t. Just yesterday the girls declared they were leaving two days early to see their father, and that nothing Miranda did would stop them, including calling the police. They were clear that they’re sick and tired of never seeing her, and wondered why she always insists on having them stay with her when she’s never home anyway. Lastly, they said that their dad has agreed to take them both for the entire summer, and that he’s already talking to his lawyer about getting the custody agreement amended.

Andrea stares, her brown eyes wide and filled with an intense sympathy that Miranda absolutely cannot abide. It makes her blood boil, even though Andrea deserves none of her ire. Of all her employees, Andrea is the only one who gives her all one hundred percent of the time. The fact that she’s brilliant, and beautiful, and attentive, has not escaped Miranda either, although she’s paid (not very handsomely) to be attentive, so it doesn’t matter.

Miranda inhales. “Is there a reason you are still standing here? Don’t you have enough to do that you have to gawk like an idiot?”

Andrea’s eyes shine; there are tears, and she watches the pale column of Andrea’s throat as it works. “No, Miranda.” She turns and leaves, and Miranda hardens her mouth into a straight line.

A few hours later, Miranda has fired two people for asking to go home. Another has quit, throwing a pile of papers at her before departing without gathering his things from his desk. After that, no one comes to her office, or even passes by unless summoned. Miranda likes it this way. She works in silence, fixing everything that is _wrong, wrong, wrong_ with this decrepit issue.

She glances at the telephone. She is tempted to call her daughters, but she tells herself they don’t deserve her time. Not after they’ve abandoned her.

“Miranda?”

Miranda jumps. Andrea is standing right in front of her, that stupid, sad expression still on her face. “Sorry I scared you. But it’s nearly seven. Can I order something for you to eat? I know a few others are getting a meal too--”

“Not on the company,” Miranda says.

“No, not on the company,” Andrea replies slowly. “I’d be happy to bring something in--”

“I’m not hungry. If you need to eat, the cafeteria downstairs should still be open.”

Andrea sighs. “It’s not, but that’s beside the point. You should really eat--”

Miranda stops her cold, lowering her voice to frigid levels. “I don’t know what’s going on, what with my underlings telling me what to do, all day long. Can you explain why that is, Andrea? Please, I’d really like to know.”

There’s a pause, until Andrea opens her mouth. “I’m worried about you, Miranda.”

Miranda raises an eyebrow. Andrea has never said anything even remotely like this to her before, and it’s disturbing. “Well, don’t.”

“I can’t help it. I see you’re hurting, but I don’t know what’s happening, and you haven’t eaten all day, and we both know what you get like when you don’t eat--” Andrea stops babbling for a moment at Miranda’s little gasp, then she goes on, louder this time. “Oh, come on, your brain turns to mush, which explains why you’ve been on a rampage!”

On any other day, Miranda would have laughed. Today, she ponders whether or not to fire Andrea for insubordination.

“I know you’re thinking about firing me, but please, Miranda, I care about you—your health, your happiness, everything. You’ll laugh at me but I consider you a friend, even if I’m nothing at all to you.” Now the tears are back in those giant brown eyes, eyes that could swallow Miranda whole if she’d let them. “It’s horrible to watch you suffer like this. We all care, everyone in this office, and when you--”

“Go home,” Miranda says flatly.

That takes the wind out of Andrea’s sails. She sags. “Am I fired?”

“No. I said go home. My mental health is none of your concern. And send everyone else out as well. I’m certain no one’s getting anything accomplished anyway, so I might as well save on overtime.” Miranda blinks, and waits for Andrea to react. When she doesn’t, Miranda repeats, “Get out.”

Andrea swallows. “Oh—okay,” she finally breathes. “Merry Christmas, Miranda.”

Miranda waves a hand and looks down at the Book. _Humbug_ , she thinks.

She doesn’t notice when Andrea leaves, or anyone else. Nigel neglects to stop in and say goodnight, as he usually does. But soon, she can tell the place is empty, just from the feeling in the air. Peace. Quiet. Calm. She is alone, and it’s better this way. It always has been, and tonight will be no different.

She goes back to work.

\---

“What?” Miranda says, lifting her head off the desk. She looks around; the desk lamp is on, but other than that, the office and hallway is entirely dark. That’s not normal, but perhaps there is a blown fuse, or the maintenance workers shut off the lights early.

She glances at the clock—it’s just midnight. At some point she must have dozed off. It doesn’t matter, since she has nowhere to be. Only an empty house awaits her. Perhaps she should just stay the night here.

There’s an odd sound, like something dragging on the marble floor. It makes her wonder if the maintenance crew is still here. She frowns but ignores it, until the sound grows so loud she can’t any longer.

Standing in the door to her office is someone she hasn’t seen in almost twenty years.

Stan Elias.

Stan has been dead since 1989, the year Miranda took the reins of Runway. He promoted her to the position she currently holds, and he worked harder than anyone she’d ever met in her life.

She remembers the day he dropped dead of a heart attack in his office at age 62. Miranda mourned him briefly, appreciating that he’d taken such a chance on a 32-year-old upstart with no experience running a magazine. She had plenty of fashion experience, of course, after ten years moving up the ladder, but other than her trademark dedication and flawless style, there was nothing particularly special about her. But Stan saw something—perhaps it was her unquestioning belief that she would one day rule the fashion world—that made him take a chance. He was not disappointed, and Miranda always hoped that the stress around her hiring hadn’t contributed to his early death.

Not that he’d been very nice to her. He was no surrogate father. In fact, he was terrifying. But Miranda had never minded being afraid of people; she simply acted as if she could do anything. And 99% of the time, she succeeded.

All of these things flash through her brain as she stares at the strange vision of Stan Elias, his skin gray and wrinkled far more than it had been in life. Which makes no sense, since of course he is dead, and there’s no way he is here now, tonight, in Miranda’s office.

“Hello, Miranda,” Stan says, and his voice sends a shock of recognition through Miranda. It is him, except there’s something wrong with his clothes— “You don’t believe in me, do you,” he says.

She gasps a little. He’s read her thoughts. “I must be asleep.”

He laughs then, and it’s a sound she’s never heard before. Not a bad sound, but it raises the hair on the back of her neck. “You’re not asleep,” he says, moving closer. His trousers are torn, shredded really, and as he shuffles forward she realizes there are wires wrapped all around his body, binding his neck, arms and legs. He has very little range of motion, which is why it’s taking so long for him to reach her desk. “You must notice that I wear the chains I forged in life.” He chuckles softly, ruefully. “I spent every day of my last thirty years at work. I never took a single vacation day, or weekend day for that matter, without making a phone call. Now, and always, I pay for my ignorance.” He pauses and strokes his chin in a frightening, familiar manner. “You, too, will wear chains of your own making. You already do. It is Christmas Eve, and here you are, alone. Can you not feel the weight of them bearing down on you?”

Miranda laughs, but any pleasure is absent from the sound. Instead she recognizes her own fear, but believes if she ignores this spectre—

“You will soon be visited by three spirits,” Stan tells her, and at this, Miranda relaxes. She feels utter, immense relief.

“Oh really,” she sighs, leaning back in her chair. “Three ghosts. Christmas past, present and future, right?” She grins, staring at the ceiling, dismissing Stan. “I really am asleep.”

Stan leans forward, straining against his bindings. “This is your last chance and hope, Miranda Priestly. I have watched you for many years as you have pulled away from the road you were meant to travel. Only a single soul who knows you has prayed for your return to the true path. It is because of this individual that I am here. Because _you are worthy of a second chance_ , but you must seize it now! Take what I offer, Miranda, or you will be sorry.”

She lowers her chin, and gazes into Stan’s gray, dead eyes. “Shall I expect the first spirit as the clock strikes one?”

Stan’s face fills with pity. He nods. “You will see me no more. But Miranda, heed my call. You are bound for--”

“Yes, yes,” Miranda says, waving a hand. “You’re dismissed, _Jacob Marley_. I look forward to waking tomorrow with a very, very funny story to tell my children. They just watched that silly Bill Murray movie last week.” When Stan doesn’t move, Miranda says, “That’s all.”

Stan tilts his head as if stretching, then his whole body rises from the floor and floats. Miranda can’t help but be astonished as he moves toward the window, drifting through it without a sound.

Again, the sensation of terror strikes her; she is covered in gooseflesh. She feels very much awake, which is the most troubling thing of all. She pinches herself so hard that she leaves two sharp slices in her arm that fill with shallow lines of blood. This doesn’t do a single thing to bring Miranda out of whatever fugue state she must be in.

After a few minutes of waiting for something to happen, she leans back in her chair and shuts her eyes. Almost against her will, she falls asleep.

\--------  



	2. Chapter 2

 

A breeze caresses Miranda’s cheek; it smells of hyacinth and freshly cut grass. So lovely is the scent that she awakens instantly, as the clock on her phone transitions to 1am.

 

When she opens her eyes, the room is completely dark. The only light comes from the city outside, illuminating her desk and the sofa in the corner. It’s unnerving, since she’s sure she left the desk lamp on. She reaches for the button, which doesn’t work when she clicks it. In a moment, she notices a glow traveling toward her, closer and closer, until a small figure appears in the doorway, candle in hand.

 

It looks like a child, but Miranda knows instinctively this is no child. She has a young face, and long hair that flows over her shoulders. Strangely, her hair is a faded auburn, streaked with gray and white. Pearly blue eyes gaze at her with a gentle expression. “Are you ready? I understand you were expecting me.”

 

Saliva gathers in Miranda’s mouth. She is afraid she may be sick, but she swallows. This small… being is… She was asleep before, wasn’t she? That whole thing with Stan, and the ghosts, was just dreck. Why on earth—

 

“You must come along. I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.” The girl smiles, and Miranda shivers.

 

“Go away.”  _I don’t want to see my past._  “I want you to go away from here.”

 

The spirit approaches to touch Miranda’s hand. It’s like feathers along her skin. “You can’t escape your past, Miranda. It’s with you every day, no matter how fast or far you run.” The hand wraps around Miranda’s, and the touch is so like her mother’s that for a single moment, Miranda believes. She shuts her eyes, and the chair beneath her is gone—she is airborne, not flying, but held aloft, as though gravity has disappeared. She clings tightly to the girl’s hand, afraid, until the strange voice soothes her. “Just hold on and all will be well.”

 

When Miranda opens her eyes, she is outside the home where she grew up. A puppy bounds toward her—a small, filthy mutt who barks madly. “Charlie,” Miranda breathes. He is so small, and he throws himself at the front door, front paws against it as he cries to get in. The door opens, and the Ghost pulls Miranda through it until they are inside.

 

Here, on the floor of the entryway, is Miriam Princhek at five years old. Her hair is pale blonde. Her nose seems too long for her delicate features, but her cheekbones are high, and her skin is porcelain. She giggles as she dries Charlie with a fluffy cream towel, and he licks her face in turn.

 

“Miriam, don’t you let that dog track mud into this house!” comes a voice from the parlour.

 

“Yes, Mother,” little Miriam says.

 

Miranda exhales, and the ghost tugs her hand toward the voice, following Miriam and the excitable puppy. “If he gets dirt on my nice clean carpet--”

 

“I wiped his paws, Mother, I promise. See?” Little Miriam points to the pristine rug, but her mother ignores her, looking down at her needlepoint. Charlie jumps at Miriam’s legs.

 

“Keep him quiet too, otherwise your father will put him out for the night.”

 

Miriam shivers. “But—but he might die if he has to sleep outside!”

 

“Then keep him quiet. We have guests coming and if they’re disturbed, you’ll be sorry.”

 

Miriam nods solemnly.

 

“Now go upstairs. Dinner is in two hours.”

 

“Yes, Mother.” The tiny girl leaves with Charlie nipping at her heels.

 

Miranda gasps. She’s just realized what day this is—it’s Christmas Eve, the night of the “incident.” That’s how she’s always thinks of it, since she’s been old enough to make sense of it. It’s the night Miranda’s mother caught her father with his hand up a neighbor’s skirt in the garage.

 

Miranda remembers this night through a child’s eyes—it’s a blur, but she so desperately wants to change the course of events. This night was the beginning of the end of her parents’ marriage, although she’s sure that it had been coming for a long time. Her father was a philanderer, but Miranda believes that it’s only because other people found out that her mother took action.

 

“I don’t want this,” she tells the ghost. “I lived through it once, I don’t need to see it again.”

 

“Miranda, to look back on your past is not meant to hurt you. Don’t you understand why we’re here?”

 

Miranda feels the tears in her eyes almost before it’s too late—she can barely keep them from spilling down her cheeks. “It’s my fault, my fault--”

 

Around her, time passes in fast forward, until the room is filled with party guests, swilling martinis and cocktails like water. It’s the swinging sixties, and Miriam’s mother is well and truly drunk, even though the wall clock reads 7:08. Little Miriam stares up at the party guests with a frown on her face. Her father is missing, and she wants to know where he is.

 

Watching her own small face, Miranda remembers her thoughts perfectly. She’d barely seen her father all day, even though it was Christmas Eve! She wanted to make sure he knew to leave out the cookies and milk for Santa, because her Mother wouldn’t remember. She was filled with eagerness, and excitement, and especially anticipation of all the good things that were supposed to happen.

 

But the Good Things would never come to pass, because after little Miriam searches every room in the house, she decides to check the garage. She turns the knob, and flicks on the light.

 

Miranda feels the ghost squeeze her hand as she stares at her father, who is on top of the woman who lives two doors down. They are rolling around on the hood of their big Cadillac car, and Charlie starts barking. Little Miriam cries out as her father looks up. Then another man pushes into the garage from behind her and people start shouting. Miranda can only watch in horror as her childhood self is ignored, cowering in the corner as people start to throw punches. Miranda’s mother is there too, in the doorway, and her face is a frozen mask. She doesn’t shout. She doesn’t scream. She looks dead inside.

 

“Get out,” Miranda’s, and Miriam’s, mother says. The room goes quiet, and Miranda’s father laughs.

 

“With pleasure.” His eye is swollen, as is his cheek, from where the neighbor hit him. He glances around, his eyes catching Miriam’s, and he actually looks angry. Not contrite. Not sad, or even troubled.

 

Charlie is barking at his feet, and her father glares down at him with a drunken scowl. In this moment, Miranda sees her father through the eyes of an adult: his eyes are bloodshot, his nose is covered with broken capillaries, his gut falls over the belt of his pants. In the few pictures Miranda has of her father, he is handsome, and smiling. In life, he is far from it.

 

Her father storms out, kicking the door as he passes through it. Eventually, all the adults leave the garage, and little Miriam is alone. The fluorescent lights hanging above her are tinged with grey and green, and Miranda watches Miriam, weeping as she holds Charlie.

 

The ghost touches Miranda’s shoulder. “The dog must have been good company for such a sensitive child.”

 

Although she has never seen herself as sensitive, Miranda nods. “He was very loyal. A couple of months later, I came home from school and he was gone.” Miranda still feels the sting of it—Charlie, her one true companion, who had snuggled with her every night, protecting her from all the things her father hadn’t. “I don’t know how he died. He was only three. My mother never told me anything.”

 

Sometimes, Miranda’s thinks her mother gave Charlie away. Or drove him to another town and left him by the side of the road. On her worst days, she thinks her mother poisoned Charlie, and buried him in the garden. She has no evidence to support any of these thoughts, but she has always wondered.

 

Miranda closes her eyes. “My father left that night. They divorced, and from what I recall they barely spoke two words to each other for the rest of their lives. My mother didn’t like to argue, you see? When they fought, my father would shout, but she’d just wait until he ran out of steam. Then she’d just cut him, right to the bone, with a few choice words.” As Miranda says this aloud, she is also thinking about herself, and hating herself. “It’s an extremely effective technique,” she sniffs. “I learned from the best.”

 

“You were just a child, Miranda. And you were not responsible for what happened between your parents.” The ghost’s head touches Miranda’s arm, rubbing against it like a cat’s. “And you never gave yourself any sympathy, did you,” the ghost says.

 

“Why should I? I was at least partly at fault--”

 

“No,” the ghost interrupts. “You weren’t. You never were. No child is at fault for the sins of their parents.”

 

Cassidy and Caroline leap to Miranda’s mind; she hears their sharp retorts, their bitter remarks during their most recent conversations. They are learning from the best too. “No,” Miranda says, sadly. “No. They’re not.”

 

“Look upon yourself with compassion, Miranda, and perhaps you will see your childhood, and yourself, differently.”

 

The garage around them disappears, and they’re in a new home, with a new father, and two new children. There is an enormous Christmas tree in the corner, and opulence surrounds them. Her stepfather is there, at his desk, working, while two-year-old twin boys toddle around the tree, almost bringing it down on top of them. Young Miriam rescues the tree and the twins along with it; she is ten or eleven, and Miranda’s mother’s voice rings out.

 

“Don’t be such an idiot, child.” She brushes Miriam aside and straightens out the tree. “Go play with your own things and leave the babies alone.”

 

Miriam’s stepfather glances up momentarily before returning to his work. The twins play in the huge pile of new toys, but they are more interested in the wrapping paper and empty boxes. Miranda sees her young self sit down in the corner with her small collection of books. She has a couple of new records, and a transistor radio. But the disparity in gifts is absurdly obvious— Miriam is now an afterthought. She vividly recalls feeling like a temporary charge to her “parents” after their wedding. Her stepfather barely seemed know her name, and over time, her mother almost forgot it too.  

 

Again, time speeds to later in the day, and Miranda sees her ten or eleven-year-old self playing a record, alone under the Christmas tree. She is talking to herself.

 

“What were you saying? Do you remember?” the ghost asks, curious.

 

Miranda creeps closer, trying to listen. After hearing only a few words, the memory comes back to her. “I was telling myself a story, about a beautiful girl who was rescued from the wrong parents. She’d been kidnapped, and when her real parents found her, they barged in one Christmas morning and took her away, and from then on they told her every day that she was loved.”

 

There’s a long pause. “That’s sounds very sad,” the ghost says. “You must have been lonely.”

 

Tears are in Miranda’s eyes. “It wasn’t so terrible.”

 

“Sure,” the ghost replies, stroking Miranda’s wrist.

 

The scene dissolves again, and more years pass—she sees herself as a teenager, alone, alone, always alone in that enormous house. She sees many Christmases go by in a blur, including the few she spent in the dorm on her own during college and her graduate years. Those were difficult, Miranda recalls, but she was able to study, and survive. But one year, she spent Christmas with her lovely, sweet roommate Janie, and this is where they come to pause once again.

 

Miranda’s breath is stolen again at Janie’s beauty—she has long dark hair and lustrous blue eyes, with pale skin and a smattering of freckles across her nose. She is short, barely five feet, but perfectly shaped, with small breasts and narrow hips. If she had been taller, she could easily have been a model, and by this time in her life, Miranda (her new name is already in place) knows what a model should look like. She knows fashion, and she knows what she wants out of life, which is to work at Vogue, or Harper’s, or Runway. She has no desire to ever marry or have children.

 

Miranda watches herself with Janie and her large family—five siblings and two loving parents, three dogs and a couple of cats running around a crowded house. Miranda had refused twice before finally accepting the offer of a place to call home during Christmas.

 

“It’s not because you feel sorry for me, right?” Miranda had questioned Janie.

 

“Sorry for you? No way. You’ve got a full ride, girl, and my parents can barely afford to send me here, but I made it and I’m staying. I just want to hang out, and you can be on my team when the boys gang up on me. I need moral support, okay?”

 

And then it’s late at night, after a marvelous dinner, and Miranda lies in a bed with Janie. It’s Christmas Eve, and Miranda almost believes that she’ll hear tiny reindeer on the roof, because the day has been pure magic. It’s everything she never knew she wanted.

 

“She’s pretty,” whispers the ghost, as if afraid to disturb the scene before them.

 

“She was, yes,” Miranda replies, wishing she could go back to this moment and start her life over again. This very moment would be the perfect place. Because she sees Janie reach out and stroke Miranda’s cheek so gently, as though Miranda is precious, and then she leans forward to kiss her. And Miranda watches herself freeze in the bed, and jerk away.

 

“What are you doing?” young Miranda says.

 

“Kissing you,” Janie replies. “I’ve wanted to for a long time. I thought you wanted me to.”

 

“No!” Miranda hisses, her cheeks flushed. “Why would you think that? Do you think I’m a—a dyke or something? That’s disgusting.”

 

Miranda recalls very clearly that she did want to kiss Janie very badly, only she hadn’t realized it until the second it happened. And then, she became utterly terrified of everything that meant.

 

“Why did you pull away?” asks the ghost, startling Miranda out of the memory.

 

“I—I was afraid.” She might as well be honest. “I’d had sex with a couple of boys by this time, I think, and didn’t care too much about them one way or another. But Janie—I didn’t know how much I cared about her until it was over. And it never even started.”

 

And then she watches Janie turn over in the bed, and her shoulders shake as she cries and cries. Miranda lies next to her, stiff as a board.

 

With the ghost, Miranda hovers over her younger, foolish self the following morning. Janie ignores her, because she is ashamed of Miranda’s rejection. It’s only now, seeing it from a new perspective, that Miranda realizes how heartbroken Janie is. So many years later, it’s clear that Janie was in love with her, and Miranda never knew, or never wanted to know.

 

Miranda clears her throat. “We barely talked after that. She moved out. I don’t know where she is now,” Miranda says, and her heart is breaking too.

 

Then there is a rush of wind, and their surroundings become New York. Right away Miranda recognizes the small Upper East Side apartment she shared with Jeremy when they were first married. There’s a Christmas tree in the corner, with about four ornaments on it, but the rest of the place is filled with baby things. “Oh, my girls,” Miranda breathes, and there they are, lying on their backs on a soft baby blanket on the floor. Miranda’s signature haircut is styled perfectly, the dark blonde color already well into its early transition to white. Her almost forty-year-old self grins down at her children, shaking big plastic keys as they giggle wildly.

 

The ghost’s voice surprises her; Miranda had practically forgotten she was there. “I thought you didn’t want children, or a husband.”

 

“It was a good idea to be married, professionally,” Miranda replies, and suddenly she realizes how stupid this sounds. “I just mean that it looked better—well, it was smart.” She frowns. “And the girls…” Miranda doesn’t even want to admit it. “I was on the pill. And I forgot to take it now and then. Sometimes I think Jeremy would notice when I did—I caught him looking at the case, more than once.”

 

“So they were an accident?” the ghost asks.

 

“I prefer to call them a surprise,” Miranda says, smiling down at her younger self, and her beautiful girls. They were so darling as babies, and toddlers, too. They behaved terribly, but Miranda never minded. She also had a great deal of help. She could afford it.

 

Jeremy walks into the room, and he looks grim. “I can’t believe you’re doing this, Miranda.”

 

Miranda watches herself glance up. “It’s just for a few hours. They won’t even notice I’m gone.”

 

“Well I notice when you’re gone, for Christ’s sake!” Jeremy says, loudly. The girls whimper; they are about to cry.

 

“Keep your voice down, Jeremy,” Miranda says quietly, but there is ice in her voice. Instantly, Miranda recognizes her mother’s stern tone. “Don’t upset them. Or me.”

 

“Believe me, they’ll be upset the second you walk out the door. They need you, Miranda. I need you, but you’re never here! They’re barely seven months old and you’re always at work. They’re going to think Irina is their mother if you’re not careful!”

 

“Well, Irina is not their mother,” Miranda says, giving the plastic keys a final shake before getting to her feet. “And my ‘work’ happened to pay for this apartment, which I don’t recall you being particularly upset about before now.”

 

“You bitch,” Jeremy breathes, and the two of them stare at each other, both shocked at the vitriol in his voice.

 

“That’s awful, Miranda,” the ghost says, and the two of them watch Miranda’s almost forty-year-old self turn her back on her husband, getting ready to go to work on Christmas Eve. The guilt of those early years, leaving her children so much, is still palpable for Miranda. Even back then Irv had breathed down her neck at every moment possible. She was constantly fighting to keep the magazine on track, and the girls, as unexpected a delight as they had been, were often cared for by others.

 

Just before Miranda leaves, Irina walks into the room holding two bottles, and Miranda feels humiliation coupled with an overwhelming rage.

 

“Is that the nanny?” the ghost questions innocently, and Miranda can barely nod.

 

“She lived with us. When the girls were two, I caught Irina and Jeremy together, in our bed.” Miranda covers her mouth, remembering the disbelief and horror at their betrayal. She laughs. “He was right, too. When I left him, the girls cried for weeks. I think they missed Irina far more than they would have missed me.”

 

“I don’t think that’s true,” the ghost reassures her. “They knew their mother. And they loved her.”

 

Miranda feels helpless as she watches herself pull on her coat and storm out the door, not saying a word to either of them, or kissing her babies goodbye.

 

“God, please don’t make me live through more. Please take me back,” Miranda moans, and in the blink of an eye, they’re in her office. Miranda is at her desk, and she feels so much relief she could cry. “Thank you--” she says, turning to the ghost, but the room is empty.

 

Glancing around, she sees no one, and nothing is out of place. She puts her head in her hands, and closes her eyes.

 

\----


	3. Chapter 3

 

It’s the sound of glasses clinking that brings Miranda’s head up from the desk; the glow is what draws her up from her chair. She follows the strange-colored light until she finds herself in the kitchen, which looks nothing like it usually does. Instead of its usually pristine, white surfaces, the place has exploded with warmth. Another difference: there is food everywhere—delicious steaks, vegetables, fish, and whole turkeys surround a man who Miranda does not recognize. Strangest of all is the man himself; he is taller, broader, jollier than anyone Miranda has ever seen. He is laughing as she stares, until he waves an arm toward her. His green, velvet robe shimmers as if illuminated by a hundred candles, while his red hair and beard shine in the light.

“Come in, my girl, and know me better.” He laughs again, stuffing a turkey leg into his mouth, tearing into it with enthusiasm. He leans against the counter and points at Miranda with his turkey. “Come along! I am the Ghost of Christmas Present. Of course you know that. You’ll know me better before the night is through!” He chuckles, amusing himself.

Miranda wants to make a harsh quip, but after seeing so much of her past, the sharpness has gone out of her. “What shall I see then? Should we go so I can get this over with?”

“Oh, my dear, you should not wish your life away. There is but a single today, and one should learn to enjoy each hour as it comes. I know this, for I live only for now, and now, and now.” He claps his hands, and tosses the decimated bone of turkey into the sink. “But we will go—there’s no time like the present, as they say. Hold onto my robe, and you will see.” He holds out a corner of his robe, and Miranda takes it.

A moment later, they are elsewhere, in a home Miranda doesn’t recognize. But she follows Patricia bounding through a hall toward the sound of voices, and she realizes it. They’re in New Canaan, at Jeremy’s home, where her girls are spending Christmas Eve, and Christmas Day. Miranda feels a pang in her chest; she is owed one of the two days with them, but they didn’t care to spend either with her. “All right. Where?”

The ghost drifts toward the voices, and Miranda trails after him. This family, including the twins, Jeremy, his “new” wife (of seven years) Angela, and Jeremy’s mother Joanna, is seated around an enormous dining table. In a highchair is the newest member of their brood, Anjelica, who is two. She is, despite Miranda’s foul mood, very cute, and surprisingly well behaved. As Jeremy slices into the turkey, Angela feeds her daughter baby food while the twins yank at a phone they appear to be trying to share.

“Girls, put the phone away, you can play with it after dinner,” Jeremy tells them, and Cassidy ignores him. Caroline slumps in her seat, and Cassidy takes full control of the device, typing quickly. “Cassidy, later.”

“Just a sec--”

“Now,” Jeremy says.

Cassidy glances up. “I am emailing Mom. I said just a sec.”

Miranda smirks as Caroline’s mouth drops open in disbelief—Cassidy is clearly lying, but Jeremy falls for it. Angela, on the other hand, is smiling, but she says nothing. She shares an encouraging look with Caroline, who sits up a little straighter-- Angela’s attention seems to soothe her annoyance. Cassidy types quickly then slides the phone into her back pocket. “Okay, done.”

“How is your mom?” Angela asks.

“We don’t need to talk about Miranda tonight,” Jeremy says, pausing in his carving.

“Why not? She’s the same as always. Except worse,” Cassidy barks. Miranda winces at Cassidy’s words. “She works till ten every night, and she’s never home on the weekends. If she is, she stays in her office.”

Caroline pokes Cassidy in her side, shushing her. “Shut it!” Caroline hisses.

“What? It’s not like it’s a big surprise. I don’t know what’s wrong with her, but _she is annoying_.” Cassidy looks pleased to have gotten the words out without being struck by lightning.

“Oh, honey, I’m sure it’s just very busy at this time of year,” Angela says. Miranda is shocked that of everyone around the table, this woman is defending her. “She loves both of you very much.”

“How would you know?” Cassidy demands, and Miranda wants to tell her child she had better watch her tone, but Jeremy does it for her.

“Watch your tone, young lady.”

“Whatever. She’s in her own world. I don’t know what we did to make her so mad.”

“Oh god,” Miranda breathes, shutting her eyes against the words.

“Mad?” Jeremy asks. “You think she’s angry?”

Cassidy glances at Caroline, and they share some silent conversation, as they always have. This reminds Miranda of her own half-siblings—it’s a form of communication Miranda has always been excluded from. “We don’t know. She never smiles anymore, not even when she gets home. She doesn’t seem to care about anything but the magazine.” Caroline stops for a moment, and stares at her hands. “You know how I got straight As?”

Angela nods.

“Mom didn’t even notice. Not even when I stuck my report card on the refrigerator, right in front of her. She didn’t even say ‘good job,’ or ‘nice going,’ or anything.” There are tears in Caroline’s eyes.

Miranda is gutted. She had no idea. She doesn’t remember seeing either of her daughters’ report cards this term. Covering her mouth, she feels cold, and miserable, like the terrible mother she is.

Jeremy looks over at Angela, and their sympathy for Caroline is palpable. “We’re proud of you, honey,” Jeremy says. “And you, Cass. You did great this year, and I know it’s been tough.”

Why has it been tough on Cassidy? Miranda scours her memory—what could it be?

“It was okay,” Cassidy says. “I don’t have to have Mr. Lennon next term, and at least he gave me a B. Thanks, Dad, for helping me out with that.”

Miranda feels completely lost. Something happened with a teacher? Where has her mind been?

“He had a chip on his shoulder, kiddo. I didn’t do anything but make sure you got the grade you deserved. I saw your final project, and I was here when you made it. All I did was tell him, and his boss, that you did the whole project yourself. No harm, no foul.”

“Why didn’t she come to me?” Miranda exclaims, furious. “I could have handled that—why didn’t she?”

The ghost grins, clapping Miranda on the back. “She tried, if you’ll recall. You told her to ask Andy to deal with it. But she was humiliated. So she went to her father, who made a phone call. It took five minutes.”

Miranda exhales, and thinks back, but comes up empty. How long has she been ignoring her own children? Weeks? Months?

“I know,” Cassidy says. “Thanks, though. Mr. Lennon never liked me, anyway. I’m glad I’m done with his class.”

“Me too,” Angela agrees, and the baby waves her arms in unison.

“Me, me!” Anjelica cries, her little smile infectious. “Me, me, me!”

Everyone around the table laughs, and Jeremy serves up the meal, which looks incredibly good. Mashed potatoes, green beans, turkey, gravy, cranberries—everything Miranda ever wanted as a child at Christmas. The feeling in the room is one of family, and love. No one is left out or ignored in favor of another. Angela includes the twins beautifully in conversation, and her kindness flares the jealousy in Miranda’s heart. She is Miranda’s opposite in every way, but Miranda can’t find it in her to dislike her.

The night speeds by. No one argues, and Cassidy’s sharp tongue is eased as they all gather around the Christmas tree to watch, to Miranda’s utter shock, “It’s a Wonderful Life.” Cassidy had always scoffed at the idea of watching such a silly movie, and Caroline went along with her. But there they are, a happy little family watching the movie together, while the baby sleeps peacefully on Jeremy’s shoulder.

“I don’t want to see anymore,” Miranda says. She swallows thickly. Never had her holidays with Jeremy been like this, not even at the beginning. “Let’s go.”

“Of course, my dear. Tempus fugit.”

The house vanishes, and after just a single blink of her eyes, Miranda is in a new place, one she’s never been in before. “Where are we?” she asks, looking around curiously. The room she stands in is small but tidy, and she is surrounded by books on three sides. There’s a sofa on the fourth wall, next to a door with what looks like half a dozen locks on it, including a bar that stretches across the whole thing. But it’s a friendly place, filled with just enough tchotchkes and candles and framed photos that it feels homey. Sweet, even. This all despite the tragic, overstuffed chair jammed in the corner, and a small, ancient television so dusty she doubts anyone’s turned it on for a year.

There’s a buzz from the phone next to the door, and she hears pounding footsteps: Andrea barrels toward Miranda, who barely moves out of the way in time to avoid her. She’s dressed in the same clothes she was wearing earlier that day, except now she wears an apron with a bowling ball on it next to the text, “The Dude Abides.” Miranda spares only a second to wonder what it means before Andrea picks up the call. “Hey!” she says. “Come on up… Oh, too bad, it’s only four flights.” She hangs up. “Shit, shit, shit!”

Miranda follows her into the kitchen, and is stunned at the sight: Andrea has somehow fit a table set for seven people into the kitchen, and food is _everywhere_. There’s an enormous pan of lasagna steaming on the stove top, plus vegetables, sliced bread, and what could only be called a vat of salad filled with cranberries, walnuts, tomatoes and who knows what else. Miranda inhales, marveling over the delicious scents floating through the tiny space.

A knock at the door brings Andrea out of the kitchen again, and moments later there is an eruption of noise when a crowd piles into the room. Nigel is one of them, followed by Emily and Serena. The fourth person is a handsome young man Miranda doesn’t recognize. All of them coo over the spread of food, including Emily.

“My god, I’ve gained five pounds just looking at it,” Emily declares, leaning over the main course with huge eyes.

“That is a good reason to gain five pounds, sweetheart,” Serena adds, sniffing the pasta as well. “Smells divine, Andy. Thanks so much for having us!”

“I know it’s later than we wanted, but you’re here now, and my friends from home are almost here too, so by the time everything’s plated they should--”

There is another buzz, and Andrea looks to Nigel. “Can you?”

He nods and leaves to greet the rest of the guests. Emily, Serena and the unknown gentleman take their seats, and shortly more people trample into the room carrying wine and armfuls of wrapped presents. “Hey, sweets,” a well-dressed young man says, kissing Andrea on the cheek. “So glad you made it out of the office tonight, otherwise we were going to be stuck with Chinese take-out,” he said. “How’d you manage to escape the Dragon?”

“Oh hush, don’t call her that,” Andrea scoffs.

“You must mean ‘raging bitch from hell,’ Doug,’” Emily interjects, and Miranda gasps.

“Emily!” Andrea yelps.

“Oh, stop, Andy, she’s been a total lunatic and you can’t deny it. I’ve worked for Miranda for five years and I’ve not seen her like this, even during our busiest times before Paris. She’s completely out of control, and--”

“—And let’s all thank god she’s not here, nor will she be making an appearance, so let’s keep the bitching to a minimum, Em,” Nigel quips, pulling off his scarf. He takes a seat next to the handsome gentleman Miranda doesn’t know, then surprises her by pecking him on the lips. “I’d rather talk about anything else in the universe, and anything other than Runway for the next 36 hours, so let’s respect my wishes, shall we?”

“Sorry, darling,” Nigel’s companion says, with a gentle French inflection. “We’ll talk about something else--”

“Miranda’s not crazy. She’s just having a hard time right now,” Andrea interjects, and Miranda feels a frisson of pleasure at her defense.

“Like we’d believe a single word out of your mouth when it comes to the boss. You’ve got such a hard-on for Miranda it’s embarrassing,” says Doug.

“Shut up,” Andrea cries, blushing, and Miranda feels an answering blush flare up in her cheeks.

“We might have to send you for some help in the new year, Six,” Nigel adds. “Anybody who continues not only to work for the woman but actually purports to _like_ her needs some intense therapy.”

“Like is too tame a word, Nigel,” Serena says. “I’d say something else, like--”

“Hey, I didn’t invite you all over here to make fun of me all night long, especially when I slaved over a hot stove for three hours to make this happen!” Andrea barks, and she’s not joking. “So someone cut the lasagna and pass out the salad. I’ll be right back. And for god’s sake, open the wine.” Andrea wipes her hands on her apron and walks out of the room in a huff.

Moments later, an African-American woman leaves a few presents in the corner of the kitchen, shrugging off her coat at the same time. “Doug, you’re in charge. Get everything on the plates by the time we get back or you’re on Santa’s naughty list. And you,” the woman says, wagging a finger at Nigel, Emily and Serena, “No more Miranda talk. Andy’s had a hard enough time this week.”

Emily cringes, while Nigel nods, saying, “Sorry, Lily. Our lips are sealed.”

The woman, Lily, leaves the kitchen and Doug takes action, slicing into the lasagna with gusto as Serena gets the salad going. They all look contrite. The ghost tugs Miranda out of the room, where they find Lily with a hand on Andrea’s back as they both gaze out the window.

“They’re just teasing, honey,” Lily says softly.

“I know,” Andrea replies. “I didn’t mean to snap. I just--” Tears spring to Andrea’s eyes. “I can’t help but care about her. And lately she’s treated me like shit, worse than it was at the beginning. What’s wrong with me? Am I really such a masochist?”

“No, girl. You’re just having a tough time right now. But if you want me to tell you what I really think, I will. You can say no,” Lily says, hesitating.

“Tell me,” Andrea says quickly.

“You should move on. You’ve been at Runway for more than two years, which is about twice as long as your original plan, and I know the only reason you’ve stuck around is Miranda.” Andrea opens her mouth as if to argue, and Lily shakes her head. “Ah-ah, no way, you’ve said it yourself after one too many glasses of red. It’s time to ask Miranda for the recommendation she promised, and get the hell out. It’s for your own sake, Andy. I love you and I hate to watch you waste your life on somebody who’s never going to see you as the prize you are.” Lily puts her head on Andrea’s shoulder, wrapping an arm around her. “Think it over. That’s all I ask.”

“Okay, Lil. Thanks.” A tear splashes down Andrea’s cheek before she wipes it away. “I hate to be so maudlin over the holiday. I’m going to forget about it and just have fun. I don’t have to work tomorrow so I plan on drinking way too much tonight.”

Lily grins. “Don’t go too crazy. You know we’re all coming back for dinner tomorrow night and I’d hate to have you cooking hungover. We both know how well that goes.”

Andrea rolls her eyes. “God, don’t remind me. Just thinking about that day makes me want to hurl.”

“Me too. So we’ll keep our heads tonight and go a little wild tomorrow. I’ll come early and help with the turkey, and I’ve already made the pies. We’ll spend the day watching movies before everyone arrives.”

Andrea takes a deep sigh, turning around to hug Lily. “Sounds perfect.” Andrea’s eyes are filled with sadness, and when they close, more tears stream down her cheeks. “That’s exactly what I need.”

Andrea and Lily return to the kitchen, where everyone is seated with full plates of food and apologetic expressions on their faces. “Merry Christmas, Andy,” Doug says, motioning her toward an empty seat at the head of the table. “Let’s enjoy it.”

Andrea smiles, and the melancholy in her eyes disappears. “Looks pretty good if I do say so myself!”

Everyone claps as the two gets settled in their chairs, and the wine is poured freely around the table. They hold up their glasses in unison for a toast, which Nigel begins. “A toast to our girl Andy, who made this beautiful meal for us to celebrate the holidays together, among friends. I, for one, am grateful to be welcomed into a home and feel like not just a friend, but like family. And I have you to thank for that, Six. So here’s to you—I wish you the merriest of Christmases, and a new year filled with happiness. Cheers.”

“Cheers,” echoes the rest of the table as they all clink their glasses together.

Andrea truly looks touched, and humbled. “You are family,” Andrea begins, “My second family. And I’m honored to have you here—I love you. So let’s eat!”

There’s a raucous shout from everyone, and they dig into their meals. Miranda wishes, out of nowhere, to have a seat at this table; to share a repast with these people who all seem to care so deeply for Andrea. And to be with Andrea, whose affection for her goes far deeper than she anticipated. The thought warms Miranda, who watches with pleasure as Andrea eats and drinks her fill.

“You care for her more than you thought?” the ghost says, nudging Miranda with an elbow. “She is extraordinary.”

Miranda doesn’t speak, preferring to enjoy the peace of her silent observation. There’s a strange sensation blooming in the top of her head—a lightness and a longing combined that makes her want to know Andrea better. Is it simply because she has concrete evidence of how much Andrea cares for her, or is it something that’s been lurking in her own heart for longer than she cares to admit?

“We must go,” the ghost says. “The present is passing, and my time grows short.” Miranda looks up at him and realizes his red hair and beard are streaked with gray. He appears to have aged decades in the time they’ve spent together.

“What happened?” Miranda asks, startled.

“I have only today, my girl. Only the now, and what little I have left. But you’ve known that all along. We all only have each day, and we must embrace it as if it were our last. Don’t you see?”

When Miranda blinks next, she is back in her office, and the spirit is gone. The silence around her is thick. She sinks into her chair, exhausted.

\----


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

Miranda paces her office, watching the clock. Each minute ticks by slowly. She does not want to meet another spirit. She wants to go home and bury her sorrows in sleep. What else is there? She has ruined relationships in her past, and her present—even her children want to escape her. What else could there be? More of the same, always the same.

She leans against the desk, drifting in thoughts of her life’s many regrets, wanting so much to change what’s happened. She is powerless, and no one can help her. Not even Andrea.

Her precious Andrea.

“I’m done with this,” Miranda decides. If she leaves, the spirit won’t find her, and she’ll wake in her bed to find that none of this ever happened. But when she looks down at the clock, the minutes have sped by—a glaring “2:59” flashes from her phone. It’s time, and Miranda has only seconds to make a break for it.

She grabs her bag and heads down the long white hallway, but she hears the “ding” of an elevator in the distance. The sound sends her into a panic. “I don’t want this, I don’t want--”

She is stopped short, because the spirit appears, blocking her path. It is enormous: tall, broad, cloaked in material so dark it’s deeper than black. The image is so familiar that is strikes in her a primordial fear—one that hearkens back to her earliest memories of the boogeyman. Or the Angel of Death.

“I don’t want this,” Miranda repeats, standing her ground. But the spirit lifts an arm, pointing. She sees nothing beneath the cloak except darkness, and shivers. “No,” she says, but her conviction is fading. “No.” The last nearly comes out in a whisper. The spirit points again, and Miranda relents, losing her breath in a whoosh. She has no choice. She turns, and starts back down the hall toward her office, her heart thundering in her chest. She is nearly at Andrea’s desk in the entryway when the spirit’s hand lands on their shoulder, and the office disappears.

But then it reappears. The walls are no longer white, replaced by a soft cream. Miranda glances around, feeling a strange energy about the place. There are no racks of clothing, no clackers, no life at all. Desks and offices sit empty all around her. The place is abandoned.

“What’s happened?” she asks, to no one in particular. She doesn’t anticipate an answer from her silent ghost, who urges her back toward her own office.

Finally, she hears voices. It’s a relief, and she hopes to discover the truth from whoever it might be. She holds her breath, and laughs when she recognizes Nigel, dressed in a sharp black suit and tie. His shoes make a familiar sound as he moves across the floors and into her office. With him is—is that Andrea? She looks… different.

Gone is the beautifully dressed, youthful girl with long hair flowing over her shoulders. In her place is a middle-aged woman with gray roots and streaks of silver in her shoulder-length hair. Her face is still lovely, but her eyes have noticeably lost their luster, even at this distance. Her black slacks are ill-fitting, too long and too big. Her blouse is also black, as is the vest she wears over it.

She looks somehow… less.

Miranda follows them into the room, with the spirit just behind her.

“So that’s it, then,” Andrea says, apropos of nothing.

“Yep. Cassidy packed the last of her things a couple of weeks ago. The lease isn’t up for another eight months, but no one’s going to pay it, so I expect the building will take everything out by the end of January and auction it off.”

Andrea glances at the bare walls, one hand against her forehead. “I can’t believe it’s over.” She closes her eyes. “I’m glad she wasn’t aware enough to realize how bad things had gotten. She wasn’t, was she? At the funeral Jeremy told me once it happened she never woke up.”

“That’s right,” Nigel says. “It was a long year till Cass was ready to pull the plug. I don’t blame her though. It’s terrible that she had to make the decision alone. Especially with Runway finally shutting down. It was too much, I think.”

Miranda struggles to catch her breath.

Nigel continues. “Ten years ago I saw the writing on the wall—Runway was a dinosaur, trying to survive against competitors that ran lean and mean. Cass tried to keep it going but she had no experience running a team. I gave her advice to cut costs and staff and get the revenue going again, but it just… felled her when Miranda had the stroke. That was the final nail in the coffin.”

Stroke, Miranda thinks. A stroke.

“She must have been devastated,” Andrea says. “How long was she Editor in Chief?”

“About three years. And what’s worse than anything is that she turned into a copy of her mother.”

Andrea inhales. “God, what do you mean?”

“You hadn’t heard?”

With a chuckle, Andrea replies, “Oh, it’s only been almost twenty years, old pal. It’s been all about the exciting city of Cincinnati.” Her voice is filled with bitterness. “Not like there’s much work there for me, though. If I didn’t have my parents and the house I grew up in, I’d have ended up on the street. That whole ‘blacklist’ thing really does kick in when Miranda fires you.”

Fired? Miranda is reeling at this information. Why on earth would she fire Andrea? And why would she not be able to find work? She’s brilliant and talented, not to mention well-connected in the industry, even at her young age.

“That was a bad time, if I recall correctly,” Nigel says, leaning back in his seat. “I never really knew why she fired you, kid. What happened?” He smiles. “Come on, the wicked witch is dead. Tell me.”

 _Dead_ , Miranda repeats to herself. _The wicked witch. Me_. She doesn’t want to believe it.

“I’ll tell you what happened if you tell me about Cassidy being like Miranda. That’s the trade.” Andrea crosses her arms and shuts her mouth in a firm line. Gazing at her, Miranda can’t get over how changed she is.

“Fine, fine,” Nigel relents, and only then does Miranda notice how much he’s aged. She’d been so focused on Andrea that the deep furrows across Nigel’s brow, the lines around his eyes and mouth, had made little impact. “As soon as she started, she turned into Miranda, version 2.0. Worked 18-hour days, fired people on a dime, had no life at all. At least Miranda managed to work a few relationships and kids into the mix after a while.” He sighs. “I heard a lot of gossip, and all of it the same. She had no mercy, no heart.” He winces, as if caught in a memory. “Losing Caroline so long ago-–it changed her. And Miranda was so trapped in her own grief that she barely noticed.”

“Caroline?” Miranda asks aloud. “What?” She turns to the spirit and strides up to it. “What happened to my child?” The spirit makes no response. Miranda is so close to it she can almost taste its fetid scent, like a dead animal left in the street to decompose. “What happened to my Caroline?”

“I read about that,” Andrea says, and Miranda immediately turns back to listen. “She wasn’t even drunk, was she? But the driver was.”

Nigel bobs his head, and Miranda tries not to faint at the news. “She wasn’t drunk. It never made the papers, because of Miranda’s iron fist, but she was coked out of her mind. Our little Caroline had a monkey on her back. She had for at least a year, but Miranda insisted that she stay in school.” Nigel looks pensive for a moment. “Poor kid. I doubt Miranda ever recognized how bad it was till it was too late.”

“I can’t believe it!” Andrea breathes, clearly affected by the news. “Cocaine. And Caroline—if either of them were going to end up an addict, I wouldn’t have guessed her.”

Miranda is shocked by the callous nature of this discussion. Her child, her Caroline, on cocaine? Dead? And now they’re judging which twin would have been on drugs?

But Nigel seems to agree. “I know. Miranda never spoke to me about it over all those years. She shut down. I tried to be friendly, but all I ever got were those fake little smiles. And Cassidy tried so hard to please her, taking over when Miranda retired, even when it was clear there was no hope. Just because it was what Miranda wanted.” He gazes around the empty room with a sigh. “Miranda was 32 when she took on Runway, but it was always what she wanted. For Cass it was an albatross. She was only 25 when she took over.”

Andrea shakes her head. “Christ. That’s how old I was when I started as an assistant. I can’t imagine what it must have been like.”

Nigel nods. “I was lucky to be gone by then. I don’t know how I would have gotten through it.”

“Me neither.” Andrea shivers. “Are you going to go to the townhouse tonight? Emily said a few people were going to meet.”

Nigel smirks. “Yes. But you’re not getting out of telling me why Miranda fired you. So spill it, lady. And if I think you’re telling the truth, maybe I’ll consider finding you something worth wearing, along with scoring you a quick dye job. You look like hell.”

Andrea giggles, ruffling her own hair. “It’s not exactly a priority for me, Nige. It’s not like I have a partner at home pestering me about my roots.” She closes her eyes, squinting for a second until she finally says, “All right. I kissed her one night. And she freaked out.”

Nigel gapes, open mouthed, so does Miranda. She is sick to her stomach, uncertain she wants to know more.

“You didn’t!” Nigel declares in disbelief.

“I know, it was stupid. Honestly, I didn’t expect her to go along with it, but I also didn’t expect her to kick me out and call HR like, that second. But she did. It was at the townhouse, late one night, and I’d decided to go out in a blaze of glory, because I couldn’t take it. So I gave her the book, and I kissed her.” Andrea touches her mouth, and Miranda is breathless. “And you know, I think she kissed me back for a second, then she shoved me away and said something like, ‘What do you think I am, a dyke?’”

Miranda wants to fold herself up into a tiny box and disappear forever.

“And that was it. I was gone. And I never told, because I was so humiliated, but worse, I really thought Miranda cared about me. At least enough to let me down easy. Sometimes we’d look at each other, and I just felt… something.” She snorts miserably. “Not so much, right? I never saw her in person again. She had my stuff sent to the apartment so I wouldn’t have to come in.”

“Yeah, yeah I remember that.” He leans forward and rests his head on a hand. “I’m so sorry, Andy. Really.” He reaches over and takes her fingers in his, and Miranda watches Andrea’s face crumple into tears.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, “don’t know what’s got into me.”

“It’s hard to look back,” Nigel says. His voice is filled with regret. “There was so much loss.” They sit together in silence.

When Miranda touches her own cheek, her face is wet with tears.

The bony, terrifying hand rests on Miranda’s shoulder again, and in a whirl of color, things blink into darkness, until she realizes they are at the townhouse. In the parlour, there is a Christmas tree in the corner. There are no ornaments on it; it looks naked and dismal. Not much in the house has changed, except on the fireplace mantel, there is a rectangular mahogany box. The spirit points, and pushes her toward it.

Slowly, Miranda approaches. She doesn’t want to look, but she is compelled to, until she finally sees the word she has dreaded.

 _Caroline_ is etched into the lid, and she knows what’s inside. Ashes. The ashes of her child--her first born. A sound of utter despair escapes Miranda then, because this makes it all real. Her beloved child is dead. She reaches out to touch the box, but a sound distracts her. Cassidy appears, and Miranda’s eyes widen. She is beautiful, but the look on her face pierces Miranda’s heart.

Miranda recognizes the expression from the mirror. She sees it every morning, and every night.

The doorbell rings, and Cassidy disappears for a moment, until Nigel, Andrea, Emily and Serena make their way into the room. No one speaks, not even when Cassidy picks up a box from the side table. She drops it on the mantel, next to Caroline’s. The words engraved on top of the box are _Miranda Priestly_. Not Miriam Princhek. Not Beloved Mother. _Miranda Priestly_.

“You guys are welcome to stay as long as you want, but I’m going to bed,” Cassidy says. Her voice is flat; the timbre of it startles Miranda, who expects her to sound as she had as a child.

“Oh, come on, Cass, just spend a few minutes with us. I’d love to know more about you,” Andrea begins. Nigel has followed through with half his promise—at least she’s wearing trousers that fit.

But Cassidy ignores her. “There’s nothing to tell. Mom’s dead. Runway’s gone. You can all revel in that, like all those other two-faced assholes who showed up at the funeral today and whispered about how much they hated mom, what a cunt she was, and how I turned out just like her.”  She laughs. “I don’t know why you bothered coming by. Nobody really gave a shit about my mom except me, and you know what’s pathetic? She never even cared about me. So do what you want. I’m done. I’m over it.”

Miranda stares, her heart breaking for what feels like the tenth time tonight. “Oh my girl,” she moans. “My sweet girl.” She sobs, shocked at the sound that leaves her throat, and falls to her knees.

Cassidy starts to leave, and when Andrea tries to stop her, Cassidy pushes her away. Hard. Andrea’s eyes are hurt, but Cass storms past her and down the steps, leaving the foursome alone.

None of them says a word. Miranda watches the tears slide down Andrea’s cheeks as Emily puts her face into her hands. Serena touches her back, and Nigel just looks at the mantel, at the box that holds what’s left of Miranda Priestly.

After a few minutes, they stand one by one and leave the townhouse. Slowly, Miranda creeps downstairs to find Cassidy alone in Miranda’s bedroom, lying on top of the covers. She is weeping, and she whimpers one word, so softly that Miranda can hardly hear it: “Mom.”

Miranda’s eyes slide shut. She can’t bear another moment. “Spirit, I promise--” she words catch in her throat. She won’t make an empty vow this time, as she has so many times before. “I swear on my girls’ lives that I will change. Please help me live for every moment, and help me learn to love the people in my life the way they deserve to be loved.” Words come to her from out of nowhere, and they stream from her mouth with utter conviction: “I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year.”

The spirit’s hand is firm upon her shoulder when the room goes black.

\----


	5. Chapter 5

 

  
When Miranda sits up and looks around, the first thing she notices is the light. It’s pale and gentle coming from the windows all around her. It’s dawn, perhaps, but what day is it? She scrambles to find her phone, buried somewhere in papers on her desk. As she leans over, she realizes her back is stiff and her shoulders are sore, as though she slept all night in her chair. There is crust at the corner of her eyes. She wipes it away, and finally discovers the phone. Clicking it on, she reads,

 _Fri, Dec 25._ _6:42am_ _._

“Ah!” she exclaims, her hand covering her mouth as if to contain her joy. She looks around, searching for changes, but everything is exactly as she left it the night before. “My god, please let this be real.” She rushes out of her office to Andrea’s desk—its surface is utterly pristine, but when she pulls the top drawer open, it’s filled with papers and knickknacks, and a photo of Andrea with two people who are likely her parents. She picks up the framed image, and carefully sets it on the desk, positioning it next to the computer monitor. Andrea shouldn’t have to keep a photo of her family inside her desk; what a silly rule.

Looking around the office, she feels her chest opening up, as if expanding to fit more inside—more air, more happiness, more love. This is the day she will change, and whether her experience was real or not, she will take advantage. Because the future she saw is not an option. An empty life, passed down to her children.

But she is wasting time—she has so many things to do now that it’s Christmas Day. She has presents to wrap, and a train to catch.

\---

She is smiling when she arrives at the door, though she does not expect to be welcomed with open arms. But her earlier feelings of gratitude and pleasurable relief have not faded at all. In fact, they may even have grown stronger as she wrapped the presents she’d asked Andrea to purchase for her children. She had intended to have them professionally done, but time got away from her. This morning, spending a solid hour lovingly wrapping the gifts had calmed her, and gave her the time to plan her day. The Book is at home on her desk, untouched, where it will stay for the next three days. She has other things to accomplish at the moment.

The door opens, and Jeremy is so surprised to see her that it’s comical. “Um, Miranda?”

“Jeremy, I just want fifteen minutes with them,” she begins, cutting off whatever he might say. “I’m sorry for showing up unannounced, but I’ve made some mistakes recently and I only want to see them and leave their gifts. I won’t cause trouble and I swear, I’ll be perfectly civil. All right?”

“Uh,” he says, his brow creasing in confusion, until Angela appears behind him.

“Miranda!” Angela says, smiling. “We weren’t expecting you. Come in!”

“Thank you,” she replies, pushing past Jeremy, who does not move even after Miranda has gotten all the way into the house. “I’m sorry I didn’t call ahead, but I was certain Jeremy would say no. I just want to see my girls—“

And then Cassidy and Caroline, each still miraculously aged 12, rush into the hallway.

“Mom!” Caroline cries, and the delight on her face makes all the effort to get here this morning worth it. “You’re here!”

“Yes, Bobbsey,” Miranda says, dropping her bags on the floor and kneeling as her beautiful and very much _alive_ daughter rushes into her arms. “I’m here,” she whispers, and can’t help the tears that come to her eyes. She holds Caroline close, smelling her skin, her hair, the sleepy scent of her nightgown. “Merry Christmas, Caroline.”

Cassidy stays back, watching with suspicion. Miranda understands this hesitation better now than she ever has. Keeping Caroline in her arms, she holds out a hand, beckoning her near. “I’m sorry for everything, my darling.” She takes a shaky breath. “Can you forgive me?”

Cassidy looks down at the floor and shrugs. “I guess.”

“No more empty promises,” Miranda assures her. “I love you, and you won’t have any trouble knowing that from now on,” she finishes. That seems to convince Cassidy, who comes toward her with the beginnings of a smile on her face.

It shouldn’t be this easy, but it is. Cassidy falls into her arms, and Miranda is trembling as tears stream down her cheeks. “Merry Christmas, my girls.”

The minutes are long as she kneels and holds them--long enough for her position to become painful, but she ignores the ache. Only the feeling of a small hand tugging at her cream skirt causes her to look down. Anjelica is smiling up at the three of them, and she wants to be included. Caroline laughs and leans down, picking the baby up. Anjelica waves her hands toward Miranda’s face and immediately throws her upper body toward her; Miranda takes the child before she can fall. Her hands pat Miranda’s face a little harder than comfortable, but Miranda doesn’t mind, enjoying the feel of her tiny, wriggling body.  Cassidy and Caroline hover around her making goofy faces until Jeremy finally interrupts them.

“Miranda, do you want to come in?” he says uncertainly.

“Yeah, Mom, come in! We were going to eat, because we just finished the presents,” Caroline says. “Are you hungry? I don’t have my presents here for you, they’re at home. Maybe we can have another Christmas when we get back. Okay?”

Miranda says, “I was only going to stay for a few minutes—“

“You’re staying,” Angela shouts from the other room. “Breakfast is on the table, come on in before it gets cold.”

Miranda meets Jeremy’s eyes, silently asking permission. To her relief, he nods, and sighs. Miranda grins, and stands rather ungracefully with Cassidy’s help. The baby clings to her as they make their way to the dining room, where Angela has already added another place setting. Miranda goes into the kitchen, ready to help, but Angela shoos her out with the directive, “The baby’s taken a shine to you, so your new job is keeping her out of my hair. Enjoy.”

Miranda thinks this is not a fair trade, but she returns to the table and keeps the baby on her lap as the girls sit on either side of her. “Mom, why did you come?” Cassidy asks.

Miranda looks over at her daughter, and holds out a hand. “I missed you. I love you more than anyone in the world, and I couldn’t bear to spend a single Christmas without you. So, here I am.”

“But we thought you were busy at work,” Caroline says. “You said—“

“Work is overrated,” Miranda replies, turning back to Anjelica and making a face. “Who’s a good girl?” she coos at the baby. “Who’s a very good girl?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Miranda sees Caroline and Cassidy share a look of confusion, but she ignores it.

To her surprise, the baby is content to spend the entire breakfast on her lap, and she still gets to enjoy the meal. Cassidy and Caroline seem to immediately forgive her for her long-standing neglect; they soak up her attention like sponges. Angela remains far nicer than Miranda deserves, and Jeremy just watches in disbelief as she interacts with his family as though she belongs here.

After a delicious meal of eggs, bacon, toast and fruit, all of which Miranda inhales as though she hasn’t eaten for a year, she drags her bags of gifts into the room. Jeremy insists that everyone else stay seated as he carries the dirty dishes into the kitchen, so Miranda takes the time to pass out the presents.

Earlier, she was at a loss as to what to bring for Angela and Jeremy, until she realized there was an entire stash of unopened gifts from work in her closet. It took her fifteen minutes to go through them all, but she did find a few things that would suit even as regifts. She included that information on the tags—she wouldn’t want them to feel badly for giving her nothing in return. But it’s a reasonable gesture considering she’d shown up unannounced.

Angela is shocked at the dozen Hermes scarves she receives; some are plain, while others are printed with beautiful designs. Miranda chose those she would have kept for herself, because she has hundreds already. Jeremy is speechless at the Cartier watch Miranda has no use for, since both men’s and women’s versions were dropped off on Monday this week. She enjoys their surprise as much as she does the squeals and cheers as the girls open their own presents. Andrea shopped extremely well for both of them. She’ll have to thank her for that. She was able to carry a portion of the gifts with her on the train, but the rest are at the townhouse under the tree. They’ll keep.

When all the gifts are open, and the wrapping paper is spread out on the floor, Miranda hands Angela a small gift for Anjelica. “It’s just something small,” she says, and Angela pulls the baby into her lap so she can help open it. Inside is a tiny silver rattle, along with a cashmere baby blanket that’s been gathering dust in her attic for a decade. “I didn’t want to come without anything for her.”

“They’re beautiful, Miranda,” Angela says as Anjelica shakes the rattle with glee. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” She holds out a hand and Anjelica takes one finger. “She is such a sweet girl.”

Cassidy comes to stand next to Miranda, who wraps an arm around her. Caroline joins them, cuddling in on her other side, so Miranda pulls away from the baby’s strong grip to hold her too. Caroline’s warm head lands on Miranda’s shoulder, and for a moment, she flashes back to the moment she learned of her death. She squeezes her daughter tightly, and kisses her cheek.

Miranda stays for another hour, listening to the girls tell stories of their vacation, and the weeks leading up to it. Only when Miranda checks her phone does she realize that in order to make her second stop, she ought to head out.

She says her goodbyes with Jeremy and Angela, and Anjelica too. Jeremy is serious as he tells her, “I don’t know what happened to you, Miranda, and I can’t say I was happy to see you, but I’m glad you came. The girls have—they’ve missed you.”

She touches his arm sadly. “I know. I’ve been—well, suffice it to say I’ve ignored them for far too long. You’ve been there for them, taking care of things when I haven’t.” Although it feels awkward, she leans forward and hugs him. “Thank you.”

There’s a long moment; she can feel him catching his breath. “You’re welcome.”

“And you too, Angela. I can’t thank you enough for treating them as if they were your own.”

“It’s easy,” Angela replies. “But you’re welcome. You’ll have to come back and visit Anjelica—I think she’d be broken hearted if you don’t come around once in a while.”

Miranda nudges the baby’s cheek. “I may do that.”

The girls don’t want her to go. Caroline offers to go back to New York with her, and of course Cassidy follows suit. But Miranda assures them that they’ll have another Christmas tomorrow, and she’ll pick them up in person at the train station bright and early.

“You mind your father, and take care of each other,” Miranda tells them firmly. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I love you both so much.”

“Love you too, Mom,” they echo, hugging her tightly. She fights tears as she walks through the door and out into the frosty air.

\---

On the train back to the city, Miranda doesn’t spare a single look for anyone around her. Instead, she focuses only on her phone as she searches for the name that’s been floating in her mind for much of the morning.

Finally, after digging through the alumni website, she finds what she’s looking for. With a deep breath, she dials.

After three rings, someone picks up. “Hello?”

“Hello,” Miranda says, her voice cracking. “I’m looking for Janie Masterson.”

There is a long pause. “Who’s calling?”

Miranda takes a breath and gets the guts up to say it. “This is Miranda Priestly. I just—I’m trying to touch base with Janie. Or Jane, perhaps.”

“Miranda,” the voice on the other line exhales, and Miranda knows right away that this is Janie, the girl who loved her, and maybe the girl she loved too. “Miranda? Is this really you?”

Miranda swallows and presses a hand to the cool window, watching the snowy landscape rush by. “Yes. I know this is ridiculous, calling on Christmas, but you—something happened to me yesterday, and I thought of you.” She is convinced that she sounds like a crazy person, but she barrels forward. “Thirty years ago, I made a mistake. I can’t undo it, but I just… wanted to tell you I’m sorry. And that I regret the way I treated you. I always have.”

Just getting the words out and off her chest makes her feel lighter. It might be crazy, and ridiculous, but it’s the right thing.

“My god, Miranda, I—I’m stunned. I hardly know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. You don’t owe me a thing. You can go back to your family—I won’t keep you—“

“Wait a second!” Janie exclaims, laughing. “Give me a minute to catch up. I might not know what to say, but I can tell that this is important to you, and to me too. God,” she says, and moments pass in silence.

There’s a noise in the background, and Janie says in a low voice, “I won’t be long, it’s okay,” before returning to Miranda. “My family’s here, two of my brothers, and my wife, and our kids. But I want so much to know what happened that brought all this up.” She laughs again. “Think you can give me the short version?”

Miranda smiles, and sits back against the seat. Over the next twenty minutes, she talks around the “ghost” thing, but explains how she’s been thinking about her life and her past. She also goes on to say that she might have some… feelings… for a woman in her life, but she neglects to mention her age or particular position. Janie listens, and when Miranda’s done, she tells her own story of the years it took for her to come to terms with being a lesbian, of the relationships that came and went until she met Melissa, her wife. To Miranda’s surprise, they have twin girls as well, almost ten years old.

“You broke my heart, Miranda,” Janie says, “but I got over it.” Miranda chuckles; in her mind’s eye she can see the sly grin on Janie’s face. “Took a while, but I survived. But I gotta tell you, it’s marvelous to hear your voice. You were my best friend, and I hated losing you.”

“You were my best friend too,” Miranda whispers, closing her eyes.

They spend another few minutes on the phone, and Miranda promises to call her in the new year. And when Janie asks if maybe she and Melissa can go on a double date with Miranda and her sweetheart, Miranda demurs, pleading that nothing’s happened yet.

“Oh it will, Miranda. Of all the people I’ve ever met, you’re the one who always gets what she wants. So if you want this woman, you’ll get her. It’s only a matter of time.”

The thought gives Miranda a little thrill. “We’ll see,” she says, hoping.

\---

Miranda is more nervous about this particular visit than she’s been about any others today. She actually stands in front of the security buzzers for a full minute, waiting to get the courage up to buzz the one labeled “4F.” When she finally holds up a hand, two people push the door open from the inside, smiling as they glance up at the snow falling from the sky. They barely notice Miranda, who reaches out and grabs the door before it closes.

Slowly she climbs the four flights, pausing to catch her breath twice. She tells herself this is only because she’s carrying so many bags, and not because her heart is pounding in anticipation.

When she finally stands in front of the door, she says to herself, “Don’t be an idiot,” and knocks hard on the wood.

There are noisy footsteps, and the door flies open. “Ring the bell, why don’t… you.” In front of her is Lily, Andrea’s friend. “Holy shit,” she says, staring at Miranda with an open mouth.

“Is it Nigel?” Andrea calls from the kitchen.

“Hello, Lily,” Miranda says, holding out a hand. Without thinking, Lily reaches out and they shake hands. “Is the lady of the house available?” She’s impressed that she sounds completely relaxed.

“Uh, yeah. But she’s… well, shit. Come on in, I guess.” Lily turns around and ignores Miranda as she retreats to the kitchen, so Miranda follows.

“What?” she hears Andrea shout. “Stop fucking around, Lil. Who is it?”

And when Miranda turns the corner, Andrea is standing over an enormous pot at the stove, a potato masher in her hand. When her eyes meet Miranda’s, they both freeze. “Oh,” Andrea says, and it’s almost like a sigh. “Wow. Hi.”

“Merry Christmas,” Miranda says, and her knees feel only a little weak. She holds up her bags, filled with enough wine and champagne to keep them all soused for days. There are also a few gifts that they can distribute amongst themselves, except one that will go to Andrea, when they have a moment alone. “I have no place else to go, Andrea. Will you take me in?”

“Of course, Miranda,” Andrea says, rushing forward with the masher held aloft, her apron covered in stains. “You’re totally welcome.” When Andrea is nearly on top of her, she realizes what she’s doing and stops just in time. Pulling off her bowling ball apron, she passes the kitchen tool to Lily. She reaches out as if to take the bags, but Miranda only sets them down. Instead, she takes Andrea’s hands in her own, and steps forward.

“I knew you’d say that,” Miranda says softly. And then, as their fingers tangle together, the air changes, and Andrea can feel it too. There’s a spark, that thing that’s been stewing between them for so many months. It’s real, as real as anything she’s ever felt. And she won’t let it go, not if people laugh or sneer or try and destroy her for it.

“Uh, I gotta go make a call,” Lily says, and she disappears from the kitchen.

Miranda nods toward the stove. “You’re cooking for a crowd?” Miranda asks.

“Yes, there are seven of us. Or, eight now. I’m so glad you’re here, Miranda. I’ve been worried.”

“You were right to be,” Miranda says. “I’ve been having a difficult time.” It’s not hard to admit this to Andrea, whose eyes are so kind, so open. “But I’m better now—happier.” Miranda squeezes her hands, and her heart is loud in her ears.

“You do seem… different.” Andrea tilts her head. “And you’re smiling.”

Miranda’s smile grows at that. “I am.”

Andrea’s lip curls into a disbelieving grin. “You don’t smile very often, Miranda, and certainly not at me.”

Miranda blinks slowly. “That… is going to change. Starting today.”

The tension simmering between them rises again, and as Andrea steps close, the door buzzer rings. Andrea jumps, gasping, and chuckles. “That’s probably Nigel. He promised to bring the green beans—I forgot them.”

“You’ve had a great deal to do, if I’m not mistaken. Didn’t you do Christmas Eve dinner as well?”

Andrea’s eyes pop open. “How did you know?”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve spoken of it at the office. Word gets around.” Miranda hopes this isn’t totally off base.

“Right, right,” Andrea says, her frown vanishing in an instant. “I’ll be back in a second. Um, make yourself at home, okay? Do you need a snack or something?”

“Go, Andrea. I’m fine. We have plenty of time,” she assures her, and the words help Miranda calm down as well. She has plenty of time—days and weeks and years.

Nigel is talking about how crazy it was at the market the night before when he went to get the beans, but he stops short when he spies Miranda opening a bottle of wine.

“Andy,” he says, taking his glasses off and rubbing them on his tie, “is that Miranda in your kitchen?”

“Yes, it is,” Andrea says with a huge smile.

“Will wonders never cease,” he says, and looks up. He watches her, as if considering his next words very carefully. “You here off the clock?” he asks.

“Yes,” Miranda replies. She snags a glass from the table and pours. “We all are.” Just to make it clear.

He takes the glass and hoists it in her direction. “Well done, Miranda.”

She pours another three glasses for the guests, and hands them around. “Is there an apron I can wear? I don’t want you overmashing the potatoes,” she adds.

Andrea’s eyebrows lift, but she takes the masher away from Lily, who’s been carrying it around. “Go for it.”

\---

Miranda helps Andrea with everything; she has cooked very few turkeys in her life, but she is adept at reading directions. Lily helps too, and only once is Miranda caught off guard in conversation.

“How’d you know my name?” Lily asks Miranda, as she is chopping celery. When Miranda looks up, Lily continues, “When you came to the door, you knew me right away. But we’ve never met.”

Miranda blinks, and lies smoothly. “Andrea’s spoken of you, of course. I’m sure I’ve seen your picture… Somewhere. Don’t you run a gallery?” Miranda has no idea where she pulls this detail from; she must have picked it up from a conversation between Andrea and Nigel.

Andrea has a strange look on her face as she watches Miranda, but doesn’t say anything. Miranda can almost see her filing away the detail in the back of her mind, and considers how long it will be before she asks about it.

By the time the dinner is ready, everyone has arrived. Emily and Serena are still awkward around Miranda in this social environment, but Nigel’s boyfriend Pierre is charming. He does much to keep the conversation flowing, as does Doug, who Miranda likes a great deal. His knowledge of fashion and finance pique her interest, and they enjoy a long chat about IPOs before Miranda’s phone rings.

When she glances at the display, she inhales in anticipation. “Excuse me, I have to take this. It’s my brother.”

Nigel does nothing to hide his shock; he knows that Miranda almost never speaks to either of her half-siblings. But on the train, after her conversation with Janie, she took a chance and left a message on Max’s voicemail. She isn’t sure if Alec is with him, but perhaps she’ll find out.

“Hello?” Miranda says, biting her lip.

“Miriam!” Max declares, his voice loud and cheerful in her ear. “I can’t believe it you called! Alec and I were just talking about you yesterday, wondering how you were.”

At the sound of the voice she hears so rarely, Miranda is overcome. She leaves the boisterous kitchen in favor of the quieter sitting room, though it offers little privacy. She sits in the overstuffed chair, despite the fact that it needs to be put out on the curb as soon as possible. “I’m fine, Max. I’m glad to hear back from you. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Miri--er, Miranda. Sorry about that.”

“It’s all right, I don’t mind,” Miranda says, and for once in her life, it’s true. Max, and Alec, and  _Miriam_  are a part of her past, part of what makes her who she is today. And that’s enough. “Is Alec with you?”

“Yes, he and the kids came in from Colorado yesterday, so I have a full house.” There’s a short pause. “I’m sorry I didn’t invite you.”

She chokes out a laugh. “Max, I have been the most absent sister in the history of the world. I wouldn’t have expected a Christmas card, much less a phone call. But I—I’ve been thinking of you both a bit. Wondering if it’s too late, you know?”

She hears Max sigh. “No, Miranda. It’s not too late.” There’s a shuffling sound over the line before she hears, “Al, get on the phone and talk to your sister,” he says.

A matching voice joins Max, and Miranda smiles. “Miranda? We were just talking about you yesterday!” Alec repeats.

“So I heard,” she replies, and relaxes back into the seat.

They don’t talk long—maybe ten minutes. It’s a nice conversation, and maybe the beginning of something familial after so many years of silence. When Miranda hangs up, she remains in the chair that has turned out to be absurdly comfortable. No wonder Andrea hasn’t thrown it out. It feels good to sit here, alone, drifting in thought. So much activity and socializing and opening herself up has taken a toll, but it’s a pleasant kind of fatigue.

“Miranda?” Andrea says softly, startling her. She kneels at Miranda’s feet. “Everything okay?”

“Yes,” Miranda says, swallowing thickly when Andrea reaches up to brush a tear from the corner of her eye. “Really. I’m fine.”

“It’s hard to believe you—you seem so…”

“…Not myself?” Miranda answers for her.

Andrea shrugs. “I’m not sure. I only know a tiny part of you, I think, so it’s not for me to say.”

Miranda takes Andrea’s hand in hers once more. “You know me better than that.” Looking into Andrea’s dark eyes, Miranda feels better than she has in ages. It’s time to show her cards. “You know what’s in my heart.”

The words seem to steal Andrea’s breath. Her eyelashes flutter as she bites her lower lip. “I do?”

Miranda nods. “You are,” she finally says, and leans forward. Andrea meets her halfway, and their mouths touch in a tender kiss. When they part, Miranda is trembling, and Andrea is too; she can see the racing of the pulse in her throat. Once more, she moves in, and this kiss is softer, more pliant, but just as sweet as the first. Andrea pulls Miranda’s hand to her chest, cradling it gently.

“Andy?” someone calls from the kitchen. “I don’t want the potatoes to dry out. Do we need to add some milk?”

Slowly, Andrea’s lips leave Miranda’s, though neither of them is in much of a hurry. “That’s a good way to start,” Andrea says, her face filled with pleasure. She is transformed, and Miranda once again wonders what took her so long to embrace the joy of life.

“Very good,” Miranda agrees, and they both stand and return to the kitchen. Nigel eyes them both with a curious uncertainty, and Miranda just shakes her head and looks away. He’ll draw the news out of her easily enough, but not tonight.

“We should say some sort of thing before we start, shouldn’t we?” Emily asks, the wine finally having loosened her up. “Grace or something?” She leans against Serena, who looks very satisfied with the attention.

“No time,” Doug says, slicing the turkey with enthusiasm, if not skill. “I like my holiday dinner piping hot!”

“Oh, there’s time for a little toast,” Andrea corrects him, pulling Miranda’s chair out for her before they sit next to one another. “I’ll just say that Christmas is a time for friends and family, and I’m grateful to have you all around my table. I’m especially glad to have some new faces here,” at this she glances at Miranda, “to make the day more wonderful. So before I get too long-winded, I’ll wrap up with a line from one of my favorite stories—“

“ _Scrooged_!” Lily and Doug bellow in unison.

“Stop it!” Andrea laughs, trying not to spill her wine. “No, it’s from  _A Christmas Carol_.” She clears her throat. “ _A_   _Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us_.” Beneath the table, Miranda finds Andrea’s fingers. With their hands tightly clasped, Miranda closes her eyes and waits for the words she’s known were coming all along.

“ _God bless us, every one_.”  
  
  
~the end

 


End file.
